


His Song

by lestvt



Series: Intercourse With the Vampire [1]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, M/M, POV First Person, PWP, Rimming, tl;dr louis gets a tongue up his ass and then thinks about marrying the guy its attached to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 16:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13722033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lestvt/pseuds/lestvt
Summary: Lestat always has a song on his lips. And, as usual, Louis is unable to resist.





	His Song

 

The very moment I came to him again, even after countless years, I could hear it.  

And just as it had been for centuries, his song was an echo in my mind – his voice an alluring challenge, a command even – and I knew I had interpreted it correctly when later, while we were alone in his room, his hand slid under my shirt and up my back; the cold, possessive press of his fingers now, and as always, enthralled in exploring the dips of my spine, the give of my flesh. I could feel his mouth, his ineffectual breath near my collarbone, something nostalgic in that for a moment I might have forgotten where, when, or what I was if only I were to focus fully on that sensation.

Not a new sensation, mind you, but no less moving for it; I suppose he’s just always had that affect on me, as a mortal and as a vampire, try though I might to deny it.

Now was no exception. 

That being said, he had me in his grasp as soon as I would allow it – maybe a moment before.

“My love, my beautiful one,” he was whispering, though seemingly more to himself than to me, and still his tone near shattering to my bones – everything in me with a bit of resolve left. Beyond his wandering hands, I became aware of the incessant drag of his lips, then a hint of teeth, and I half-smiled despite myself, despite my confusion in the face of his need.   

“Lestat?” I whispered back, wondering, but he didn’t seem to hear me.

“Don’t leave,” he said, and, because I knew I might, I felt a ravenous, cavernous guilt, like a sinkhole in my chest, not quite as stable as I would’ve hoped, nor quite deep enough to change my mind on the matter.          

“I won’t,” I lied.

“Yet,” Lestat snarled his reply. “But you will. You always do.”

“Not this time,” I told him, and that, at least, was the truth. “Not tonight.”

And then I ran my hand through his hair, taking pleasure in the full bodied reaction it earned me, the way his shoulders slumped and he pushed himself closer to my neck.   

It was nice to know the “affect” was mutual.  

Lestat straightened up and back then, looking at my face with dark, searching eyes. Our lack of a mental link aside, I could sense his urgency, his desperation. I knew him well enough to know he was upset about something, in one of his moods – knew him well enough to see that tonight would be a night for arguing into passion – but I did not yet know why.  

“Lestat,” I wondered again, in search of answers, “what is it?”

“What is what?”

“This,” I said, knowing he’d understand, “you.” And I was channeling my patience. “Why?”

He frowned and leaned forward, tightening the embrace he had on me and pressing his lips to mine in a chaste, fleeting kiss. When he pulled away I thought he might speak, but instead he surged in again, this time intrusive and insistent, melding our mouths and bodies together just so. He made a steady sound in the back of his throat, almost akin to a hum, like he was picturing himself performing upon a stage again, and then his tongue broke through my lips and began tracing the edges of my fangs.

“I want you,” he said against me.

“You have me,” I assured.   

Lestat shook his head, and I felt more than I saw.  

“I want more.”

“What more is there?” I asked. “You already have everything – my heart, mind, and body. What else can I give?”

Lestat was humming again, this time a popular song for weddings, and I listened and that was all. Intent, but not quite comprehending. Sometimes his whims struck me as being so silly, most of the time really; there wasn’t anything I could say.

When it became clear to him that I would not be the one to do it, Lestat broke the silence.

“Marry me,” he said.

 _What?_ I couldn’t help thinking, _where did that come from?_

“We’re vampires,” I reminded him.

He raised a brow.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“And men.”

At that Lestat scoffed and pulled away.

Suddenly, the air felt cold.

“And it’s a new century!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up and stepping into the center of the room. “You need to let go of these dated, mortal reservations, Louis! Anyone can marry whoever they wish to these days, regardless of class, race, or gender!”    

“But… us?” I had to know. “Why?”  

“Why not?” he countered. “Just because we could!”

“But what would it accomplish?”

“ _Merde!_ I don’t know – nothing! It would make me happy! Is that not enough of a reason?”

 _No, not really_ , but I did not articulate this thought, for surely it would enrage him further.   

“What brought this on?” I asked levelly instead, watching him now pace about his room like a caged animal. “Are you dissatisfied with something?”

“Yes! No! …I don’t know!” And then he was upon me again, manhandling me towards his oversized bed, onto my back and trapped beneath his weight. He hovered there, starring down, wild-eyed and all but trembling. “I love you, Louis,” he declared, sounding somehow vulnerable.

“I know,” I said, reaching up to touch his cheek. “And I love you. Is that not enough?”

“I don’t know anymore.”        

“Did something happen?” I asked, concerned. I could only hope he wasn’t keeping secrets from me again. I wasn’t sure I could withstand it if he was, however likely the prospect might’ve been.

He didn’t answer, and my chest began to ache with frigid reminiscence.

“I’m already yours,” I said once more, just because I could – because I wanted both of us to hear it. 

“But _are_ you?”

“Yes. I’m here with you now, aren’t I? No one else.”

Lestat looked incredulous, no doubt thinking to bring up my comings and goings, to bring up our charcoal past. 

Knowing so, I narrowed my eyes and reached around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss, trying to convey with soundless lips and tongue and teeth what words could not. Over the years, I’d come to find that this was the paramount way of pleading with him, of distracting him too. There existed no better means for gaining Lestat’s undivided attention, at least not for me.  

“ _Mon Louis_ ,” he sighed into my mouth, proving my point.  

“Yes, I am,” I agreed, my voice naught but a heated whisper, trying to keep him here in the present with me, here in this sweet, lonely moment and away from the what-if’s and maybe’s.   

“Then marry me,” Lestat insisted, automatically ruining my plans (as he was prone to doing), and his one knee slid against the mattress and between my legs. “Do it just because I asked you to. Because you love me.”  

And he sounded so childish, and yet so sincere and hopeful that I, as per usual (at least these days), was desperately endeared to him. I couldn’t help my smile, small though it was, and as much as it might irritate him to see when paired with the words I spoke next.

“You don’t need a wedding to know I love you.  _We_ don’t need that.”

“But I want it,” he argued.

I sighed.

“Lestat, I just…” wasn’t sure how to approach this, honestly.

On one hand, part of me was tempted to scold him for even bringing it up, for putting me through the conflicting feelings that now began boiling inside – to tell him a final “no” and order the subject dropped. But at the same time I wanted to do whatever he requested of me. I wanted to be his pleasure, to answer his call, because I was the same, and I wanted to keep him.

But I was torn.    

“So, you’re rejecting me?” Lestat asked then, bristling at my prolonged pause.  

“No,” I said, jerking slightly as his hands began a surprise journey along the underside of my thighs. “But marriage, Lestat? Really?”  

“What of it?” he hissed, and then he started divesting me of my clothes despite the bitter ire etched on his face. “If you love me, then it should be an easy decision.”

“It’s not that simple,” I said as he pulled my sweater over my head.

“It is if you want it to be,” he muttered.

“You’re trying to bind me to you, is that it?” I was growing a bit exasperated. “You don’t want me to leave again, so you thought you’d make me stay by means of marriage this time?”

The comparison to our past went without saying.

When Lestat’s brows knitted together and his lips turned to a thin line, I knew I was correct.   

I breathed his name, trying to soothe, maneuvering his body to lie beside me – a reminder that much had changed since those days. I tucked myself against his chest, my head on his shoulder, face settled near his neck, and I left a light, bloodless bite there just because I knew it would excite him.

“You already made me yours,” I reminded, “over two hundred years ago.”

“But you still won’t marry me,” he whined.

“Because it’s meaningless in the face of our history,” I tried to reason. “When you’ve long since bound me to you preternaturally, marriage seems rather inconsequential by comparison, don’t you think?”

Lestat sat up on his elbow then and I rolled off him to allow our eyes to meet. He looked down at me for a long moment, searching for something, and when he finally found it he said, “And yet I’d have you in any way I could. I’d take everything you’d give me.”              

Again, I smiled just for his eyes, tracing a finger along his jaw.  

“You have me,” I told him again, “so take me.”

And he did.  

I was already bare-chested, but Lestat followed suit quickly enough, moving on to my pants just as urgently, like he thought I might flee if he did not make haste. I ran my hands over his now exposed shoulders and down his arms, both to reassure him of my company and to admire the curve of his musculature – a motion and a heat to my gaze that never failed to spur him on, I knew from experience.  

He kissed me again, first using his thumb to pry open my bottom lip, and something about that particular action sent a thrill through my gut. Then his tongue delved in, and he began teasing the roof of my mouth with it – a soft, fleeting tickle – before, without warning, he sunk a fang through my upper lip.

Blood poured and I let out an undignified yelp that turned into a moan, which Lestat rewarded with one of his own as he nursed the wound, and we both began to revel in that addictive, coppery tang. In this setting it was something of an aphrodisiac, and its slickness acted as a lubricant for our kiss.        

His name fell from me like a prayer then, landing directly in his mouth, and he answered by squeezing my legs and moving them apart to make room for his body.

Lestat was still warm from feeding, I noted, and suddenly I was acutely aware of my own temperature, which burned disproportionately high all things considered. Or perhaps I was just imaging that. But still, I felt the fire, and I was anxious as he leaned down, chest to chest, skin on skin everywhere he could touch, and promptly attached himself to my neck.

And even with his mouth full, he still laughed at my swift intake of breath.  

After that, and as always, the swoon came in a rush of emotion and sensation, pain and pleasure smelting into a single, all-encompassing experience, combining with a collaboration of dueling drum beats and the frenzied rush of my borrowed blood as it escaped to him. It was so powerful that I could scarcely differentiate between what was real and imagined. Or even just remembered. And it seemed to go on for a perpetual moment, the same sort I had been gifted by him, though still I could not comprehend its infinity. And this, at least, I wanted to last.

But as all things must, the swoon came to an end when Lestat decided it should, leaving a hollow screaming in my veins, a lead in my limbs that made it feel as though I were melting into the mattress. Suddenly, I became aware of his weight on me again, of the friction of skin and the summons of his essence. Yet, I was so exhausted, so weakened by the drain that I could do no more than hope my eyes conveyed my hunger. To hope he would simply know.

And Lestat did know. More than that, he read me, and he smiled devilishly as he brought his hand first to the wound on my neck, then to my now healed mouth, where he used his fingers to paint my own blood onto me like lipstick – admiration in his gaze, mirroring the longing I felt for him. And then he pressed his wrist there in some imitation of the first time we’d done this, and I heard myself moan, ignited by the recollection. For nothing could quite compare to that initial high. It never left my head, my regretfully resilient memory, and so I might spend forever hoping for a second glimpse.

This in mind, I bit him as I knew we both wanted me to, and he groaned and slipped his free hand between the sheets and the dip of my back, pressing up as if to lift me closer. I adjusted my hips for him, wrapping my legs around his and running a foot along his calf. And, right before resubmitting to the swoon, I watched as his face broadcast his pleasure, mesmerized by it – by him – and then I let myself float.

When I came to Lestat had torn his wrist away, and I felt my chest heave and my tongue slipped past my lips in order to chase his flavor. He kissed me again, sucking on my tongue, tasting of _us_ , fierce and animalistic, biting more, but not enough to cut. And once he was satisfied he flipped me onto my stomach.

I pulled a pillow to me and slid my arms beneath it, relaxing as much as I was able, feeling the bed shift and listening to the sounds of rustling fabric as Lestat undressed the rest of the way. Then he returned to me, and I sighed (an involuntary action) as I felt his warm body settle over mine, followed soon after by his hands that traversed the planes of my flesh, petting up and down my back, and then brushing my hair aside so he could set his teeth in the nape of my neck – still not drawing blood, just gnawing.

“I know what you’re doing,” he whispered lowly there. “Trying to distract me – trying to make me forget that you haven’t given me an answer yet. You naughty thing, you.”

I looked over my shoulder to catch his eye.

“No,” I lied, “I just want you to fuck me.”

And the word “fuck” coming from me, vulgarity as a whole really, had proven to have that same “affect” on him; I’d long since realized this fact. And he tensed up – there would be no use denying it, for I felt it happen – and then he let out an ethereal growl that was something no human was capable of, like an earthquake in his core.

I knew I had won.

As if he could hear my thoughts (and, thank all things holy, he could not), he struck me on the hip as one might discipline a child, and though I was tempted to retaliate, my success in enticing him was enough satisfaction on its own. And in any case, rather than fighting, right now I was more eager to have him inside me in every way I could.   

“Hurry,” I ordered, using that voice which always drove him mad… or at least madder than he already was.                     

He hummed something short, almost an acknowledgment, then laughed again, spread my legs and slid down my body, dragging his teeth across my lower back and over the curve of my cheek. My heart thudded in my chest; I thought he might bite me there, a stunt he’d pulled once before, one I did not appreciate. But there came no sharp pain, only the glide of his lips and an electric rush, the thrill that shot through me when I felt his fingers pull me apart, the mass of his arms, which rested on my thighs, the temporary warmth of his breath, and then finally the wet tease of his tongue on my hole.

I moaned an “oh” in surprised pleasure, both high-pitched and short, but overall encouraging.

This wasn’t something I was used to – “rimming” I think Lestat called it. He’d only recently taken to it, which is why he was doing it now I supposed. He sought to gain an upper hand, to have me at his mercy. And it was effective, because feeling his mouth in such a place was oddly intense and intensely intimate. And, despite all else we’d done, I couldn’t ignore the weighty, hot wave of shame that passed through me when I felt his face nuzzling there, let alone his tongue.     

So, yes, I was at his mercy. But then again, I didn’t care, for I already always was.

As if in testament to this, he pushed into me, first tongue, then two dry fingers. I hissed and choked on his name as I was breached; it was an uncomfortably invasive kind of pleasure. My body was not meant for this, and so it naturally resisted, but somehow that thought just caused my senses to heighten all the more.

Then he withdrew his tongue and flattened it, licking one last line along my hole, and he sat upon his knees with his fingers still deep inside me, slowly beginning to pump and prod more fervently. I trembled against his hand and gasped out in appreciation, urging him to keep going. Which he did and kept doing, gradually building up a rhythm as well as the tension in my lower belly, making my fingers flex around the pillow and my leg draw up as I fought for purchase on the sheets, wanting leverage to be a more active participant in this dance. But Lestat wasn’t having any of that, and instantly he straightened my leg out and forced me back down on my stomach.

I groaned pathetically at my own helplessness, too besieged by the pleasure he subjected me to, by the force of his fingers, the push of his palm as shock after shock shot up my spine. I was simply drugged by the thought of what he was doing to me – of what he would soon do – of the control he demanded. 

“Hush,” Lestat silenced my complaints. Then he slotted himself along my back, his welcome weight like an anchor, a comfort even, and for that moment I needed his presence – his attentions so utterly that I did not know what else to do with myself.

I wanted to be absorbed by him; there was no other way. As long as we were apart, as long as we were separate beings, I knew I would never achieve true contentment or even divine peace. And in that thought there was a kind of empathy for him, and also an effervescent thirst.       

And now I could feel his cock, diamond hard and nudging at my inner thigh, a slight distraction from the way he violently worked me open. I lifted my hips and rubbed into it, looking to spur him on, to remind him of what he could be doing instead, reluctant to remain as the passive party. But there was no relief to be found here either.

Lestat already had me precisely where he wished me to be – falling to pieces to his hands, desperate and powerless, just as he must have often felt, surrendering to his torture, just as I often did.

But by then I knew I wanted it.

“‘Stat, please,” I begged of him, lust winning over logic and pride. “Need you - _now_.” 

“You have me,” he chuckled, mimicking my earlier words; I could hear the smirk in his voice. Then he twisted his fingers in that certain way which always brought tears to my eyes, which made me break for him. “Is that not enough?” he mocked.

I writhed and gasped a despondent, “ _Non!_ _J'ai besoin de plus!_ ”          

“Just as I thought.” 

Then Lestat withdrew his fingers from me, and I took the opportunity to roll onto my back and throw my legs around him before he could choose otherwise. He glowered, probably at my unwillingness to just sit still and let him take me apart, but when I matched it with a cheeky smile, one that would do him proud, he calmed and smiled back.

And we were kissing again, this time slow and deliberate. And with this he told me that I was loved here, that I was needed, and so in answer my hands smoothed up his chest and sides and then his shoulders and back, even running dangerously close to his ass as I tried to touch everything I could reach, every familiar bump and niche.

He was grinning into the kiss now and he huffed heavily through his nose right before pressing our hips together, grinding down on me so that our erections lined up, trapped between two solid torsos.

I broke the kiss and arched into him, teeth clenched to withhold the embarrassing, lewd sounds I was bound to make – or the ones I was already making through them. And, of course, Lestat kept at it for what felt like much too long a time, rubbing us together, building me up just enough to frustrate, but never harder or faster, and thus never progressing to a fall.

I closed my eyes and gripped his upper arms with both hands, quiet, but unseemly sounds escaping as he took me along for the ride. I was aching and anxious, not even coherent enough to articulate my needs beyond elevated, throaty moans and gasps, but I knew Lestat would eventually tire of this teasing too.

And soon he did.         

“Louis,” he all but sang my name, his voice like gravel, but laced in his typical deviousness. “Is all well, my love? You look as though you’re in pain.”

I dug my nails into his skin and opened my mouth to reply, to call him a fiend and damn him for playing such games, but Lestat chose that moment to move his hand between us, grasping my length to rub a cry from me instead.

“See what I mean?” He chuckled.

I cracked open my eyes.

“Enough of this, Lestat,” I said, my own voice so unfamiliar to my ears while coated in these layers of lust that I nearly looked for a third party in the room. “Come now. _Baise-moi_.”         

“I plan to,” he assured, and again he returned to drawing strangled moans from my throat as he stroked my cock in a sturdy, sluggish grip. “I just want to make sure you’re nice and ready first, my darling.”

“I’m ready,” I told him. “More than. Just hurry.”

And he laughed, triumphant in that way which would usually drive me insane, but now had me pining and pleading for more of him.

He let go of me then, shifted back slightly, and pricked his finger with a fang, letting the blood well and drip onto his shaft. I watched the droplets, the crimson lines smeared like the sweetest nectar, calling out to be inside me, just as he would soon be. And I found some solace in this thought.

Then Lestat was lining himself up, and I tugged at the sheets near my head in anticipation, pulling him minutely closer with my legs, overtly aware of the blunt pressure of his cock, poised to push inside and fill me with his blood in yet another manner.

I closed my eyes again, steadying myself, readying my nerves, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

...

Impatient as ever now, I looked up at him to see the hungry, sadistic expression he wore and met it with the displeasure of my own.

“Ask nicely, Louis." 

I grimaced.

“What?”

“Ask me nicely,” he repeated, “and then I’ll fuck you.”

I scoffed, thoroughly annoyed.

“Just do it,” I beseeched.  “Haven’t you prolonged this enough?”

“But I want you to ask for it,” he reiterated. “I want to hear how much you want it first.”

Despite the implication, the petulance, I softened at that, because I could see beyond his mask. I knew what he was truly seeking, and that was reassurance.

“Right now there is nothing I want more,” so I told him. “I desire you, Lestat, so much. You should already know how I do.”

“Yes, I know,” he agreed, clearly eating it up. “Just as I desire you.”

“Then please,” I kept on, “don’t play with me any longer. Just do it – take me – make me yours again.”

And that was it: the trigger, the _muleta_ to the bull.  

With a groan he breached me, and I inhaled sharply at the drag of him, my stomach dropping as he slid home, rocking against my ass, pressing in inch by inch with every thrust forward, until finally he bottomed out. And I closed my eyes again, reveling in the fullness I felt, in the scent of his sex and blood sweat, and the hum of that dark, possessive resonance issuing from his chest like a song.

Then, after a moment, during which we sat still, simply enjoying each other’s warmth, Lestat began to rock again, gradually growing more urgent with every thrust.  

“A-ah,” escaped me, and I felt my face flush with ecstasy, then exertion, as I began to move with him, chasing my pique.

Feeling suddenly starved for it, I reached up to guide Lestat into another kiss, shuddering as he dropped to his elbows, one arm on either side of my head, and violated me with his tongue. I was drunk on the pleasure of his solid, lithe form creating a heady friction both inside me and between our chests, sensitive nipples catching on each other, his weight bearing down on me, almost bringing with it a semblance of calm, a sense of safety even, if not for the heated nipping of my lips or the thick drag of his cock. But even then, somewhat.

He moved to bite me then, and at this angle I found I could easily do the same. And so we drank from each other, adding to the pleasure exponentially, until finally I felt the coil in my gut tighten one last time, and then release, muddying my mind with nothing barring the sensation of Lestat all around, forcing away every last drop of my resolve.

I gasped his name against his bloody throat, overwhelmed by orgasm, clutching him as a means of grounding my reality as he rode me through it. And still he kept going, not quite done, and the oversensitivity had me reeling, uttering a bizarre combination of both English and French that was indecipherable even for myself, until at last the rush of his release coated my insides and I granted him a grateful little moan and tensed up to return the favor – milking him for it.  

And, finally, Lestat collapsed atop me, breathing heavy just as I was, even though we did not really need to.

In this moment, I realized, there was nowhere else I’d rather be. It was perfect here and now, just he and I – in his arms, covered by him and his blood both inside and out.

It hadn’t always been so. But it was now.

And, oh, how it _was_.                        

 

 

[…]

 

 

“Just think about it, Louis,” Lestat whispered to me later that night, near morning as we lay pressed together in post-coital harmony, his chest vibrating against my cheek, retrieving me from the silence I’d fallen into. “You don’t have to decide right now. It can wait. We have time.” He sneered. “Too much, actually. Just say you’ll at least think about it, and I promise not to push the issue any harder.”       

So, he was back to that already then? Still stuck on the notion of marriage apparently. Though part of me could empathize with his longing for more, for a deeper connection, I still couldn’t see how marriage was the answer to that. I couldn’t quite grasp the appeal. 

“It would really make you that happy?” I asked, watching his expression closely. “It truly means so much to you?”  

He nodded, staring at the ceiling, almost in a daze.   

“Alright. I’ll consider it,” I relented, suddenly self-conscious in the face of what I’d just partially agreed to.

I adjusted my position against him.

Lestat laughed again, this time airily in what I assumed was joyful relief, and then he carded his fingers through my hair, stroked, and began humming – and his humming eventually morphed into a full-blown French lullaby.      

After that, all words were lost to me, and that morning I fell into death with the same echo in my mind – Lestat’s voice in aged, melodic poetry – his song, like a time machine in the moments before my passing, when my eyes were closed in some mock of mortal sleep, but my mind was still present. The music brought with it vivid memories of New Orleans and our townhouse on the Rue Royale – of humid hunts, a child in my arms, of foliage filled rooms and the shrill tones of a harpsichord, fogged, but unremitting and repetitive. Until, finally, the void took me.

The next night when I awoke, it was again to his song, this time off in another room.  

 _Marriage, huh?_ I found myself thinking. _Maybe it_ is _worth considering._

**Author's Note:**

> What was that you said? Anne Rice’s vampires don’t have sex? Uuuuh, I’m sorry, but I can’t hear you over the sound of me not giving a shit??? ? 
> 
> Go ruin someone else’s boring, self-indulgent porno, ya useless hack. 
> 
> /sigh  
> Who am I even talking to? Myself, obviously. 
> 
> So anyway, I don’t actually know what this is or why the internet needed it (because it didn’t). I just know that I wanted to write something short, smutty, and in-canon to take a break from LITNOL, and so here we are. 
> 
> Whatever. Sometimes you just gotta vent write fluffy vampire porn, you know? Because why the hell not? (And especially because I got dumped a week ago by a guy named Louis lolol). I honestly have no idea where this would even fit into the VC timeline though. Anywhere modern, probably. Just think whatever you want – it doesn’t actually fucking matter in the end. 
> 
> I mean, we’re all gonna die eventually anyway. :)  
> (((Oh, sorry, my morbid sense of humor is showing ////))))
> 
> Okay, that’s all.  
> Bye. (&Thanks for reading~)
> 
> P.S. – @Anne Rice; Girl, listen, I expect you to take full responsibility for this, because if you didn’t want me to write about it, then you shouldn’t have described their would-be wedding in detail, okay? You only have yourself to blame.  
> Except for the porn bit (read: most of it); that one’s on me… 
> 
> \----------
> 
> French Translations:  
> (NOTE – I used google, because I only ever took one year of French when I was like 14, and so I’m not exactly an expert with the language, ok?)
> 
> Merde – “Shit”  
> Mon Louis – “My Louis”  
> Non – “No”  
> J'ai besoin de plus – “I need more”  
> Baise-moi – “Fuck me”


End file.
